


Counting The Days

by ashes_and_ashes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drarry, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memories, Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 08:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17504729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashes_and_ashes/pseuds/ashes_and_ashes
Summary: On the day that Draco first saw Harry Potter, he was 11.He was standing in the robe store, being measured for his 3rd pair of robes. His father’s voice rang in his head. You are a Malfoy. You must be the best, because you represent our family. Everyone else is beneath you.So he stands there, the weight of his lineage pulling down on his shoulders. He’s only 11, but he manages to keep his chin high, keep that smirk plastered on his face. You are made of granite, he tells himself, over and over again.He hears the door open behind him, the tinkling of the bell making him turn around slightly. There was a boy standing there, messy black hair and emerald green eyes and a scar that looks like lightning on his head. For a moment, they lock eyes, and Draco feels himself mouthing words. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.





	Counting The Days

On the day that Draco first saw Harry Potter, he was 11.

He was standing in the robe store, being measured for his 3rd pair of robes. His father’s voice rang in his head. You are a Malfoy. You must be the best, because you represent our family. Everyone else is beneath you.

So he stands there, the weight of his lineage pulling down on his shoulders. He’s only 11, but he manages to keep his chin high, keep that smirk plastered on his face. You are made of granite, he tells himself, over and over again.

He hears the door open behind him, the tinkling of the bell making him turn around slightly. There was a boy standing there, messy black hair and emerald green eyes and a scar that looks like lightning on his head. For a moment, they lock eyes, and Draco feels himself mouthing words. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

It confused Draco, how one could be so famous, and yet look so normal. Harry looked confused, one hand gripping the bottom of his T-shirt as he asks, “Um…excuse me? I need…I need new r-robes and they said to come here?”

Then the bustling came, the assistants almost bowing in their hurry to attend Harry, and Draco tore his eyes away, staring into nothingness as he tried to compose himself.

On the day he knew that Harry was his enemy, Draco was nervous.

His heart pounds in his chest, sweat trickling down the back of his too-stiff robes as he stands in line. The hall was so big, candles illuminating the darkness like starlight as Draco noted the hundreds of eyes that looked up at them.

He glances over at the farthest table, the one draped in gold and crimson and lions, and his heart aches for a moment before he catches himself. He was a Slytherin, the only house he belonged in, and he forces himself to smirk, to gaze towards the silver and emerald silks at the back of the hall. For a moment, he flashes between the emerald of the table and an emerald pair of eyes, and he shrugs. There was a chance, wasn’t there? A chance for them both to be in the same house?

He shakes the thought, that familiar mask of arrogance sliding onto his face as his name is called and he strides forwards, onto the stage. He feels his heart stop as the Hat was put onto his head, but without pause, it bellows out his fate. Slytherin!

So he sits down at that table, the one of green and silver, and waits for Harry Potter to be sorted.

On the day he duelled Harry, Draco was furious.

It was second year now, him and Harry and that ridiculous duelling club that Lockhart and Snape were running. He wanted to curse Snape, turn around and bolt out the door, because why in the nine realms of hell did Snape put him with Potter?

It was always them, Draco and Harry, two sides of an ancient coin. Slytherin and Gryffindor, light and dark, the Boy Who Lived and the Boy who was Damned.

He laughs at the thought, shaking it off as he turns around and stares into his enemy’s eyes and prepares to duel.

On the day he realized there was something more, Draco was injured.

It started with the Hippogriff. Harry was riding it, black hair rustling in the wind, the light illuminating him from behind. Draco stood, on the hard, frozen earth, and had laughed. Because how could he not? They were enemies, the past 3 years making sure that that line was damn clear, and yet here Draco was, staring at Harry. For a moment, his eyes traced him, the hard lines and the soft edges, and he clenched his fists.

It was stupid, meaningless. It was pointless to even consider it. Draco had chosen his side, and Harry his, and nothing could change that now. They were enemies, rivals, and Draco was falling in love. He opens his hands, examining the cuts now carved into his palms, and tries to forget about Harry.

On the day that he actually talked to Harry Potter, Draco was terrified.

He was sitting in the library, behind one of the shelves, the bottle of healing potion in front of him. It sang to him, of numbness and softness and sleep, and he reaches forwards, drinking the contents. Each sip whispered of silence, each swallow another step closer to oblivion. So he sat there, drinking and drinking, anything to forget the letter.

His father had written to him, talking of marriage and happiness. Draco was only 14, still young, still whole, and he was engaged to a cousin he had never met. He takes another sip, his head spinning and his heart cracking, and he was just so damn tired.

When he hears the footsteps, Draco was too numb to do anything. He sat there, head on his lap, not even bothering to go for his wand as the person approached. He hears the footsteps stop, and he glances up, cursing, as he stares at the person he doesn’t want to see.

Harry is standing there, awkwardly shifting as he says, “Hey. Malfoy. You…you alright?” And maybe it’s the question, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s never had anyone ask him that before, but suddenly Draco is crying and Harry is awkwardly holding him, one hand wrapped around Draco’s neck. Harry smells like parchment and cool air and wood, and Draco finds himself relaxing into Harry’s arms.

On the day they met for the tenth time, it was midnight.

He didn’t know how the meetings happened exactly. It was after the conversation in the library, where one thing lead to another, and soon they were meeting up in secret, just to talk.

He paces up and down the corridor, in front of that wall, thinking the same phrase over again. I want to see Harry, I want to see Harry, I want to see Harry.

On the third time, a highly polished door appeared, embedded in the wall. Draco doesn’t hesitate, seizing the handle and yanking the door open.

It looked like an old tea shop inside, a cluster of wooden tables and chairs, candles illuminating the room. Harry was there, feet up on the table, and as Draco walks in, he smiles. “Hey, Draco.”

Draco wasn’t sure when he became Draco, and not Malfoy. The sound of his name being spoken by Harry sends a pleasant shiver through him, and he pulls out a chair, sliding into it. “Harry.”

And they talk and talk, about dead parents and muggles and silver-edged canes, and when they finally exit, it’s 4:00 in the morning.

On the day Draco realized he loved Harry, he was watching the Tri-Wizard tournament.

They were standing there, watching the Maze and the Champions, the cool air biting at their faces. Draco was lounging, pretending that he didn’t care, pretending that he didn’t give a damn whether Harry won or not. He sips his Butterbeer, eyes lazily scanning over the hedges below him.

The wand sparks came after 15 minutes.

A huge pillar of them, red and gold and white shooting into the air. All around him, people were muttering, wondering who the coward was. Draco shrugs, trying not to show his worry as he scans the maze again, because goddamn it, it better not be Harry who was hurt. He shrugs, takes another sip of the Butterbeer, anything to dull the fluttering in his stomach.

Then the scream happened.

A high pitched scream, echoing over the fields. It was the sound of someone getting tortured, someone getting hit with Crucio. Draco was standing, the bottle in pieces around his feet. He didn’t give a damn though, his heart pounding, as he watched. Please not be Harry, please not be Harry.

The muttering ceased, and Draco feels the breath whoosh out of him as he sees Fleur being carried away. Relief flows into his blood, as he collapses on the chair. It was interesting, he thinks, that he felt so strongly about someone that even the Tri-Wizard Tournament scared the crap out of him. A word flashes in his head, but he ignores it, shakes it quickly, focusing instead on the maze.

It’s almost 30 minutes before he sees the figures approaching the centre. Even from this far away, he can see Harry, limping, and his throat tightens. Cedric is there too, and Draco watches as they both close their hands on the cup.

And he’s never known terror, not like this, as he sees the two of them being whisked away, a blur of yellow and red. Draco is frozen, panic surging through his body, as all around him the screaming starts. He can’t do anything, can’t move, can only stand and stare at the place where the boy he loved disappeared.

On the day he kissed Harry for the first time, they were outside.

They had gone behind the greenhouses, walking through the cold air. Draco was talking, spinning a tale of silences and marble and a cold home. “It’s hard. Just…” He exhales. “You’re locked in. There’s no other way to put it. You’re locked in and you’re screaming, because all you want to do is escape, and you can’t say anything, because you have to be perfect all the fucking time.”

Harry nods, his voice soft. “I know. I know, Draco.” He reached up, brushes a stray strand of hair from Draco’s face. “It’s a prophecy. You try to live, try to escape, but you can’t. Because everything, everything, rests on you.”

Draco laughs, his voice bitter. “But that’s just the thing, right? I can’t complain. Because I’m not marked for death, I’m just slowly killing myself inside trying not to fall apart and I know that there’s something wrong with me and I have to hide it -“

Harry’s voice is firm. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Draco shakes his head. “Isn’t there?”

Harry grabs his arm, staring at Draco. Draco looks back, into the deep green eyes of his supposed enemy as Harry breathes, “No. There’s not.”

And then Harry’s leaning forwards, and Draco’s leaning forwards, and they are kissing so hard that Draco goes blind. The rain pours down on top of them, plastering Draco’s hair to his face, and he runs his hands along Harry’s back, pulling him closer, and God, he’s wanted to do this for so damn long and now they finally are together after 5 years. He can’t move, can’t talk, can’t do anything but breathe Harry in and kiss him harder as they stand there beneath the stars.

On the day Draco’s father was captured, Draco was numb.

They were sitting there, on top of Gryffindor Tower. The wind was sharp, cutting into Draco’s flesh as he closes his eyes against the pain. Harry was next to him, one arm wrapped around him as Draco stared without seeing at the castle below him.

They had been sitting there for hours without talking, just him and Harry, wrapped around each other as the day wore on. Harry shifts, his hand pulling Draco closer as he whispers into Draco’s ear. “Look…Draco…I…I know you. I know you are hurting inside, and I know you are trying to hide it.” He leans forwards, brushing the side of Draco’s head with his lips. “Draco, it’s fine. It’s just me. I’m always here for you. Always.”

The words cut deep, biting into Draco’s soul, because how could he tell him? He had everything that Harry didn’t, had a family and a home and money, and yet it wasn’t enough. How could he explain, the silence and the disapproval, the echoing halls and the ice-cold rooms? The fear of getting caught out of bed, when all he wanted was some more food? The punishments and the looks and standing in the cellar for hours on end? No, Draco could never explain what it was like, to grow up with Lucius Malfoy as a father.

He closes his eyes, anything to block out Harry’s eyes, boring into that shredded soul. Draco doesn’t recognize his own voice when he speaks. “It’s not that, Harry. It’s just…” He laughs. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

Even without looking at him, he can feel the concern dripping off of Harry, the sympathy and the compassion, and Draco want’s to scream. I don’t deserve this, he thinks, because a true son wouldn’t be thinking this. He runs his hands over the wooden shingles of the roof, his nail slipping on a pair of deep gouges carved into the side. SB + RL. He presses his finger into the words, trying to ground himself against the emptiness inside.

Harry’s voice is soft, gentle. “It’s okay, Draco. Let it out.”

And it’s the sympathy, the empathy in those words that finally makes Draco snap. His voice sounds low and broken and bitter, shattered glass and broken bone. “Let what out, Harry? There isn’t anything to let out.” He laughs. “Goddamn it, Harry. Look at this! My father, the person who raised me has just been thrown into Azkaban, where he’ll probably die and rot within a year, and I don’t feel anything. Nothing. I really just don’t care anymore, about anyone in my screwed up family.”

He sees the question in Harry’s eyes, and he laughs again, the sound driving nails into his chest. “What do you want me to say, Harry? It was hell growing up with them. All that pure-blooded mindset and carrying on the Malfoy name.” He clenched his fist, his nails piercing into his skin as he breathes, “They didn’t care, Harry. My father never told me he loved me, never told me he was proud of me. All he ever did was sneer and tell me I wasn’t good enough. He locked me in the cellar once, for 5 hours, because I spilt my glass of water when I was 8.” Draco turns, unclenching his fists, to look Harry in the eyes. “And the thing is that I know. Goddamn it, I know. You have no one, Harry. Your parents are dead, while at least mine are still living. I should be so fucking grateful, that I have parents, a family who are alive, yet I can’t even muster up the emotion to cry.” He exhales, looking down at their feet. “What does that make me?”

He feels Harry’s breath on his neck, and he turns his head. Harry’s eyes are dark, reflecting the sky above them as he whispers, “Human.”

The word drives something in him, burning through the numbness, and Draco just nods as he lets his head rest on top of Harry’s.

On the day he told Harry about his Dark Mark, Draco was pleading.

They were outside, snow swirling in the air as Draco begged Harry to listen to him. Harry’s wand was out, a barrier between them, his eyes full of disappointment as he stared at Draco. Draco was standing, cloak flying around him, as he whispers. “Harry…I…please, just listen to me.”

Harry’s voice is flat. “Listen to what, Draco? A message from Voldemort? Another excuse for swearing to kill me?” Harry’s voice shook, slightly, as he spits out, “That’s what you did, Draco. You just swore to kill me, to hurt my friends. You just swore yourself to the man who killed my goddamn family!”

Draco closes his eyes. For a moment, he flashes back. He was standing in the hall, trying so hard not to shake as a long, pale hand brushed over his face. The faces in the crowd around him blurred together - his father and his mother and Bellatrix and a hundred more cloaked figures. He remembers the pain, the agony, the burning that seared his flesh and his bones. He remembers the taste of copper in his mouth, as he bit down on his lip and tried so hard not to scream. It was one of the things Voldemort’ commended him for, after the ceremony.

He opens his eyes, the world appearing in front of him again as he whispers, “I had no choice, Harry. He was going to kill me, and my family. He was going to torture them, Harry. What the hell was I supposed to do?”

For a moment, Harry seems to waver, his wand trembling slightly, but then his voice hardens, and Draco knows he’s lost. Harry’s voice is defeated, as he says, “I don’t know Draco. I just…I don’t care any more.” He glances down, at the snow and their footprint. “It doesn’t surprise me. You come from a family of death eaters, Draco. Why did I think you’d be any different?” He glances up, meeting Draco’s eyes, and Draco catches his breath. The boy he loves, the memories of kisses and rooftops and fireplaces is gone, replaced with the unwavering eyes of his family’s enemy. “Why did I think we would be any different?”

Then Harry turns, walking away, and all Draco can do is stand there and watch as the Boy he Loves disappeared into the snow.

On the day Draco was tortured for Harry, he was back at home.

There were 50 of them, all in a circle, on the immaculate floor of his home. He sees the hooded cloaks and the silver masks, and he shivers, because what the hell did he get himself into? Fear pounds in his stomach, fear for himself and for his family, because he knew Voldemort was coming and Harry was gone.

He couldn’t regret it, though, not when he knew Harry would survive, would live to see another day. It was a split second, a glimpse. He had run down into the cellar, wand out, to see Dobby, there in the dirty cellar. He could have screamed, could have called out for someone, could have stunned them, but he waited and watched as Dobby grabbed Harry’s elbow, and disappeared with a crack. He remembered the look on Harry’s face, defiant and pleading and so, so beautiful, and Draco let them go.

We’re paying the price now, he thinks, and he feels his heart clench in his chest. He closes his eyes, willing that mask of indifference and marble to slam down over his face, because Voldemort was coming and he could not give Harry away.

The next thing he knows, his mother is in the middle of the circle. She’s on her knees, her blond hair spilling over her shoulders and onto the dusty floor, tears rolling down her eyes as she pleaded to the figure in robes in front of her. “My lord, I am so sorry, please forgive me, I am so sorry - “

“Relax, Narcissa.” The voice is so, so cold, a knife’s edge on a freezing day, and it cut through her sobs effortlessly. Draco catches a glimpse, of hooded eyes and pale skin, and he forces himself to look away. “This is the third time you have let Harry Potter slip through your fingers. Where. Is. He?” Each word was accompanied with a sharp bang, and Draco sucks in a breath as he hears his mother scream. “Please, my lord, I do not know! They disappeared without a trace! Please, spare me my lord, spare me, I do not know!”

He hears the banging stop, his mother’s sobs calming as Voldemort laughs. “Very well, Narcissa. You make a compelling argument. Get up.”

His mother rises to her feet. “Thank you, oh thank you, my lord, I shall not fail you - “

He feels the laughter echo through his body, as that cold voice speaks again. “I shall spare you, Narcissa. Where’s your son? Draco, wasn’t it? He shall take your place.”

He hears Narcissa scream, her voice cracking as she pants, “Please, not Draco, take me instead, please not Draco!”

Dimly, he feels a hand shove him to the centre of the room, and he stumbles forward. He barely hears the laughter around him, barely hears the screams of his mother. His heart pounds, filling his mind with his heartbeat, and he clenched his jaw because he will not scream, he will not fucking scream.

He sees the wand being raised, hears the spell being cast, and he suddenly remembers a conversation with Harry, so long ago.

What did it feel like, he asked, when He used Crucio on you?

Harry had shrugged, his eyes becoming distant. It hurt. Like hell. It was like…like your body was being ripped apart, and your bones were cracking. It was like you were boiling, every inch of you burning.

And as the pain hit, Draco closes his eyes, releasing that small, choked noise at the back of his throat and prays that Harry made it through alive.

On the day Draco killed for Harry, he was determined.

It was the battle of Hogwarts, death eaters battling students, as Draco throws himself into the fray. There are hundreds of Death Eaters, huge cloaks and silver masks, and Draco fights, because he knows that if he doesn’t, his friends will die. He shoots spell after spell, curse after curse, yelling the words until they become ash in his mouth. He knows that behind those masks are people he knows, his parents or his uncles or his cousins, but he keeps fighting anyways. He feels the cuts on his body burn, feels the exhaustion coursing through his blood, yet he ignores the pain, keeps fighting. He shoves another student aside, blocking the curse with his wand and keeps moving, because he needs to find Harry, and he can’t die without looking into Harry Potter’s green eyes one last time.

He sees Harry after a while, fighting with another Death Eater. They both move, spinning and slashing and swirling, and out of the corner of his eye, Draco sees another person aiming at Harry. He barely thinks, barely hesitates, just point his wand and aims. The spell that shoots out of his wand is dark green, and he watches the Death Eater crumple to the ground.

He’s just killed a person, just ended a life, and he knows he should be shell-shocked, but he isn’t. He glances at Harry, at the boy he loves, and his heart aches for a moment before he pulls himself back together and rejoins the fight.

On the day he kisses Harry again, it’s 8th year.

Nearly all of them returned, to the hollowed out shell of Hogwarts, and Draco feels that familiar numbness in his body as he stares at the towers of the castle that used to be his home. Everywhere he looks, he sees signs of the battle, in the cracks in the walls, in the broken doors and the scorch marks. The common rooms are mostly destroyed, so they all sleep in the Great Hall, watching the stars float across the enchanted ceiling.

Sometimes, he lay on his side, watching Harry sleep across the hall. He never talked to Harry, never approached him, but deep down, Draco still loved him. He let it go though, because Harry deserved to be happy, even if it killed Draco in the process. He saw the nightmares though, saw Harry wake up crying, and Draco’s heart ached.

It was another day, crisp fall, when Draco first talks to Harry. He saw Harry, outside behind the greenhouse, staring at a spot on the wall. Draco smiled slightly, remembering that first kiss, and he sighs. He approaches slowly, scared of hurting Harry, as he whispers, “Hey, Harry.”

Harry turns with a jolt, one hand sliding to his wand, and Draco closes his eyes. Scars, he thinks, because they both had them, even if no one could see them.

It’s dizzying, being this close to Harry. It’s been so long, 2 years of hiding what he felt, and now they were standing, so close to each other, in that same place where it all began.

Harry lets out a long breath. “Hey. Draco.”

Draco stands there, next to Harry, one hand brushing over the cool stone. He glances at Harry out of the corner of his eye, notching how Harry flushed and looked down. “Did…did it matter, Harry? Was any of it real?”

Harry’s voice is hoarse. “It was all real. Every last minute of it.”

Draco nods, swallowing. “D-did…did you regret it?”

Harry meets Draco’s gaze. “None of it.”

Draco nods, turning away. “Look, Harry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” He exhales. “Just…good luck, Harry. I hope… I hope you find someone else, somewhere. Someone better. Someone who deserves you.”

Draco takes a step, about to walk away for the last time when he feels a hand on his elbow. He turns around, sees Harry, one hand clutching onto his arm. Draco’s breath catches in his throat, and that’s all the encouragement Harry needs because suddenly they’re kissing again. And it’s sunlight and dusk, the feeling of warm air on your face. It’s clean air and cool water, two boys kissing once again, and Draco runs his hands over Harry’s body. He feels Harry’s hands, skimming over his back, over the scars and the wounds and the hollows of flesh, and Draco is falling, because it’s been so long and he’s never stopped loving Harry Potter, not really. And they stand there, kissing, promises of old stories and new beginnings, both of them finally, finally free.


End file.
